Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

taking their time. From a hilltop they could see the horses from the racing stable being worked on the track. They walked their mounts for the half mile, cooling them before they would be given water, then turned them over to the groom and started for the house. From that direction came a muffled bang.
    “What was that?” Peter asked.
    “Sounded like one of those heavy mahogany doors being slammed,” Stone replied.
    “Somebody must be mad about something,” Peter said. The trash from the party was being removed by the back door, so they walked around the house toward the front door. They heard a car start and drive away, apparently in a hurry, but it was gone by the time they reached the front porch. Stone turned and looked down the drive between the oaks and saw some sort of station wagon turn onto the main road and disappear.
    They entered by the front door, and Stone stopped in his tracks. On the floor of the main hall, a dozen feet from the front door, lay a beautifully engraved shotgun, a Purdy, Stone thought. Probably worth a hundred thousand dollars. He turned to his left and looked into the study. The glass front of the gun cabinet had been shattered.
    “What’s going on?” Peter asked from the front door.
    “Peter, listen to me,” Stone said. “Take Hattie, go into the living room, and wait there.”
    “What for?” Peter asked.
    “Just do it.” Stone had a terrible feeling, and he didn’t want the couple there. He watched them go into the living room before he continued down the hall.
    A huge flower arrangement on a table in the center of the hall blocked the view toward the rear of the house, and when Stone started around the table he saw a white pile of some sort of fabric farther down the hall. It looked like a pile of tablecloths, he thought.
    Then, as he continued toward it, the shape became clear: it was a woman in white. Alarmed, he began to walk faster. Then he saw a blob of red on the clothes. Then he saw Arrington’s face, turned toward him.
    He ran and knelt beside her. Her eyes were open and he saw her blink, then she seemed to focus on him. She tried to speak but couldn’t.
    “Don’t,” he said, his face close to hers. “Just breathe. I’ll get some help.” He felt for his phone on his belt, but realized he hadn’t brought it with him. “I’m going to telephone,” he said, and she managed to nod. Her chest was a mass of blood and tissue.
    He ran to the rear of the hall where a phone was on a table and dialed 911.
    “Nine-one-one,” an operator said. “What is your emergency?”
    “There’s been a shooting,” Stone said. “A woman is critically wounded. I need an ambulance and the police immediately.” He gave her the address. The operator began to ask questions, but he hung up and ran back to Arrington, lifting her head and shoulders, in the hope that it would help her breathe better.
    He held her head up. “Just breathe. Help is on the way.” Her mouth formed a word, but no sound came out.
    “Peter!” Stone called. “Come here, quickly. Hattie, you stay where you are.”
    Peter ran into the hall, saw his mother lying on the floor, and froze.
    Stone beckoned for him to approach and kneel beside him.
    Peter stared at his mother, speechless.
    Arrington’s lips moved again, and it was not difficult to read her lips. “I love you both,” she was saying, then her pupils dilated.
    “Mom!” Peter said.
    Stone felt at her neck for a pulse but found nothing. He lowered Arrington gently to the floor, then put his arm around his son. “She’s gone,” he said softly.
    Peter hugged his father, and they both wept.

51
    K elli Keane was beginning to tire of the tub as the water cooled. Then she heard sirens approaching. She stood and wrapped herself in a towel for warmth, then looked out the high window over the tub.
    From her left she saw two police cars and an ambulance burning up the dusty road past the inn. She could see them make a right turn at the next intersection. The Barrington house was down that road.
    She hurried out of the bathroom and got into a sweater, some slacks, and her boots, then grabbed her coat and her handbag. She ran back to the bathroom for her iPhone, then, as she passed through the bedroom, David lifted his head.
    “What’s going on with the sirens?” he asked.
    “Trouble at the Barrington place,” she said, grabbing the rental car keys from the dresser. “I’m going up there.”
    “Wait for me,” he was saying, but she was